Failure
by Arcticstar
Summary: The aftermath of defeating Voldemort. Harry can't stand it.


Yeah... so I decided to write a fic with angst. Well... I can only write these when I'm in a bad mood, and this one took me 3 bad moods to write. It kind of helps me vent my frustrations. I found it was nice, but it always came out very negative. I rarely have these kind of emotions, so I might as well use them when I can. I hope its okay. It's not beta-ed, so I don't mind light comments on my grammar or constructive critsism. Pure flames will get flames right back from me. If you come in anonomous I will probably just think your a coward, though I would not like to judge you. So I think that's all the author's note I need. Time for the disclaimers.

**Disclaimer: These following disclaimers were found on other people's fanfictions. They do apply to this fanfiction, but I can't remember all the people that contributed to the list. **

Disclaimer: No matter how many times I wave my wand, I do not hold any rights to any of the Harry Potter series but I am grateful to JK for writing them.

Disclaimer: All characters and situations belonging to HP belong to J.K. Rowling. I own only this plot and any OCs.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I wish I did...but I don't *sigh*

Disclaimer: The Characters of Harry Potter are not mine, but belong to the brilliant mind of J.K Rowling.

Disclaimer: Not mine, the Harry Potter Universe as always belongs to J.K. Rowling and all the other affiliates.

Disclaimer: Standard *sigh* JKR is a goddess and anything canon belongs to her. Anything else however, heh, belongs to me! *grins*

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I am using them without permission but am not making any money from this endeavour. This disclaimer applies to this and all further chapters of Weapon. Characters you don't recognise belong to me, as does the plot. No using without permission. (Hypocritical, I know.)

Disclaim Her: You're going to make me laugh. Me? Own Harry Potter! That's rich. *snorts in amusement*

Disclaim Her: -runs around the basement with her bug spray can- If I owned Harry Potter, do you think I'd be doing this myself? *glares* Don't you DARE answer that!

Disclaimer: I don't know why people bother with these things. What's the point? It's fanfiction, the very name says that we are taking someone else's story, because we like it, and creating a new story from it. This is the one and only one that I am going to do for this story. I do not own Harry Potter in any sense. I do own the plot. If you have a plot like mine, and you think that I stole it from you, I didn't, this is just an annoying little idea that has been playing at the back of my mind for a while. Thank you.

**Now sit back relax, and try to enjoy the story.**

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Growling he stared at the ground. Nothing more could be done. He was too late. His mortal enemy was gone, but so were his friends, never again to return to him in those bodies.

Tears flowed down his face freely. If only this was the end. Around him lay smoking black heaps, about the size of a body. Lying on top of each mound was a thin wooden rod. Each one shaped differently and unaffected by the explosion of magical backlash earlier. On his right lay a vine wand with dragon heart string, 10 ¾", resting gently on the centre of the smoking pile, the tendrils of smoke drifting around it in swirling shapes. On his other side was a wand made from willow and unicorn tail hair, perched delicately on the pile of soot, balanced so precariously that it could have fallen off.

These piles surrounded him for as far as the eye could see. Salty tears splashed silently on the ashen ground. This was his fault, all of it. He should have stopped this, but he hadn't. He fell to his knees and cried out, sorrow coating every shout.

Falling forward, his face hit the soft ash which billowed around him from the impact. A soft cough led to another that brought forth a small coughing fit. Pushing himself up off the ground, he got on his knees again. As his breathing slowed and regulated, he got up and walked towards the pile on his right. His footsteps thudded lightly on the ground. Bending down, he grasped the wand and placed in his pocket. Returning to the pile on his left, he repeated his actions.

A quiet whisper of 'accio wands' brought all the wands of his friends to him. The magic, as always, knew exactly what he wanted and obeyed him.

Taking one at random, he gave it an experimental flick. Bright golden sparks flew out of the tip. Picking up another, silver and red sparked were release with a wave, clashing with the black landscape. Repeating this process with a few more of the wands, he came to his conclusion. All of the wands had accepted him as their master.

A snarl rose to his lips. This was not to happen. They were supposed to live. His side, the side he had chosen, was to win, conquer, and live to tell the tale, but that would not be so. Fate was against him, or at least fate was against all of those he loved and cherished. As always, fate would kill the ones he loved, so that he may live. But what was the point of living? All of his friends were gone, even his childhood enemies. There was no one left, no one left that would listen and understand him. Only the dead were left to listen and comfort him, but they could make no words, nor embrace him in their arms so he could cry.

Why did this have to happen? He would have much rather died for all of them, than the opposite that had occurred. He would have endured prison and torture so that the others, the ones more innocent than he, could continue their lives.

Another quiet 'accio' was heard in the silence that was born from his sorrow and anger. Every wand came towards him, jumping from the piles of ash to reach their new master. The closest wands flew into his hands with his own. The others, the countless others, dashed to get a place at his feet like dogs hoping for a treat. They hoped to be used, to be cherished, to be needed. But this would not be so. Glaring at the pile of wands at his feet, he conjured a box of steel to block the magic. Carefully he picked each one up and placed it in the box. They would most likely never be used again, but the wands were once the weapons of his friends, his allies, his extended family. The rage still coursing through him at the horror he committed earlier, he concentrated completely on his task, desperately hoping that the anger would calm. He took them one by one and placed them inside.

Caressing each one so that they knew what their new master was doing. Each wand seemed to chill in his hand, feeling the despair coursing through the one they were to serve. After the inevitable last wand was placed into the steel box, it snapped close, the sound of metal on metal ringing from the impact. Standing up shakily with the box full of all the wands but his own, he stared at the ground. His magic was visibly shaking the air around him, making it shimmer and move eerily. Pointing one hand at the ground, a giant hole appeared. Large enough to fit body, 8 feet below the surface. His magic was still raging, working overdrive to complete his wishes, just as it had done to these people.

In his effort to destroy the bane of his existence, he had placed the spell on everyone around him. His magic had moved so quickly, unable to be stopped, spreading around him for miles destroying the magical cores of every wizard, turning them to ash in the process. He knew that if the magic was not allowed to do this, it would have killed him instead. But it was unable to do so; it was unable to rebel against its master. The magic that had always served him could not kill him without his order.

So he would order it. He would not, could not endure this by himself. The questions, the isolation, the manipulation. He would rather die.

Jumping into the hole with his wand and steel box, he landed gently. The holly and phoenix feather wand warming his hand, he brought it up to his temple. Not even bothering to take a breath, he uttered '_Avada Kedavra_' bringing his torture to an end. The magic that was fate decided to give him one last piece that he would appreciate, the ground which had been banished returned, creating a small mound on the surface. Fate had done the duty forced on her by magic, a curse.

Harry Potter had finally failed.

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Volia. It is finished. I personally think I'm going to regret it as soon as I post it. But Gryffindor is not my second house for nothing. (Second, 'cause that is what I'd be in after Slytherin - Pottermore rules)

Remember - I like constructive critisim. Not haters of HP sending flames.

Hope you were all able to endure my emotion led writing.

Have a nice day.

Arctic

Keep Writing.


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